NOTE: These characters were not created or owned by me and this was not done for profit.
When I wrote "Kicking Ass for Life" and "Life Kicked Back," I intended it to be two and done. An attempt to envision a trilogy out of the first film. But for some reason I can't explain, I wanted to see these characters again and see what happens next. So if you think it sucks, I apologize in advance. But let's give it a shot.
I always like the shape my name makes in inked cursive.
As I stood in the lobby of the art gallery, I tasted satisfaction in my breath. Beneath me lay my first art contract. The consignment was not the most favorable. The gallery would receive 60 percent of any and all sales, but this was a PARISIAN gallery! One that would get my name off the streets and into the galas and parties of the affluent who think thousands of Euros spent on a piece of paper covered in acrylic is a bargain. I hoped with this signature my "wife" and I could begin our ascent to such frivolity. And still, the name wasn't even mine.
Constance grabbed the check off her desk and oozed a fabulous smile at me. She praised my talent and brilliance in both French and broken English. "Ah, Monsieur Ayers, this is the beginning for you," she gleamed. "Soon, all of Paris will know you are one of their brightest lights."
"Call me Owen," I insisted. I doubted much of Paris cares a wit about another starving artist who still spends most of his days sketching overweight tourists by the Arc de Triomphe. But it was only the moneyed ones I needed to love me. I stood there and let the gallery procurer continue to blow smoke at me until I felt my lungs would burst. Finally, I shook her hand and again thanked her for this opportunity before making for what I hoped was an emergency exit.
As I stepped out into the warm air of Paris, I soaked in the beauty of the city right before dusk. The lights were twinkling on and the sun gave a golden hue across the landscape. According to my smartphone, it was close to freezing and raining in New York today, and I was wearing a light shirt and casual pants. Sometimes, dropping off the face of the Earth is the only way to start living. For that, I'm still glad Dave Lizewski and Mindy Macready no longer existed. I put my hands in my pockets and walked down the streets that had become as familiar to me as the neighborhoods in Queens once were. All that was missing from my idyllic stroll was a whistle and a blue bird on my shoulder. Despite how goofy I looked, I knew I was happy.
The five years since Kick-Ass and Hit-Girl rode off into the sunset has not all been sunshine and rose-sented bowel movements. Yes, Mindy—or is it Abby? Or Alice? All her aliases get jumbled in my head, so I sometimes call her Malice, though the bruises on my arms wish I didn't—brought her suitcase of $2.5 million with her. But a good chunk of that paid for the new identities and the new life. The rest she still refuses to spend, insisting we don't need it to live. We may not need it, but I sure as shit wouldn't mind it. That was one of the many sore spots I would sometimes bring up to Mrs. Ayers. Our fights must be legendary to the neighbors in our apartment building. How can they NOT notice the neighbors who keep to themselves and never throw any parties, but are always breaking their furniture? We also risked breaking just as many bones and property in the make-up sex that makes worth it afterwards. All in all, it has been a beautiful blur and far more than a self-righteous geek from Queens without a college degree deserved. And now, with my career finally taking off, we've turned the corner.
I stopped by the "florist"/guy on the side of the road selling withered flowers before reaching our block. Eventually, I came upon our poor excuse of a flat and couldn't help but sigh. Soon, we'd be moving out and into our first real home. I often wonder if I burned this shit hole down on our last day if the other tenants would feel angry or liberated. When I entered the door with the broken lock, old Madame Milieux tried to shout out after me from her room. I was so close to making it up the stairs without seeing her. I decided to call it a push and kept going.
"You and your wife need to be out of here by the end of the week," the old woman cried. Leave it to the madame to make the French language sound ugly. I ran up the stairs without even glancing over my shoulder at her.
"Yes, Madame. My wife and I will be free from your prison soon enough."
"Good," she muttered and then spit on her own floor. "I've had enough noise complaints about you two….Americans." I made it to the third floor (or second in French), opened the door and shut it behind me before I heard that shrill voice follow me up the steps. With the door safely slammed, I took in our rat trap once more. It was an elegant space: Hard wood floors scarred and marred with a thousand little scratches, dried plaster on the ceiling that smelled like milk in the summer (we have no air conditioning), a queen-sized bed in the center with a torn comforter and food stains from when it doubled as our table, and a window smaller than a normal person's head with a potted plant that never bloomed in front of it (Malice's sole attempt at interior design). There was also my wife. My wife?
"You're home early," I said surprised. Standing by the flower with our crumbling watering pot was Abby Ayers.
"Don't sound so upset, mère-tête," she said with that wicked smile of hers. She always made it when she wanted to tease, taunt or titillate and I've loved it as any other of her expressions. I went over to our small sink and poured some water while she looked me over. "It must have gone well," she said noticing the stack of crated paintings I took with me was missing.
"You could say that."
"How much," she asked. I gave her my poker stare. "How much," she said again walking across the room. "HOW MUCH," she grabbed my groin in her hand.
"….40 percent consignment," I squeezed out. The wicked smile morphed into giddy delight. I couldn't help but laugh too after she let go. "It's better than I should have gotten this soon." She put her arms around me and leaned up for a kiss.
"Not too soon, Monsieur Family Man." She kissed me, but her mocking brought back that fear. Though she was only seven weeks along, my son/daughter would soon be in this world. That was one great responsibility I never thought KA could bare.
"Then it's even more for the better. You don't want our baby to grow up in this dump."
"I grew up in boot camp to become a child assassin," she said with her smile close to mine. "I don't really think we could fuck up anymore than Daddy did." I kissed her brow and made a mental note to get her to stop cursing like a 40-year-old sailor in the port of Bangkok. But not today. Today she could swear until the moon vanished. "Soon, you'll have your house in the suburbs."
"That's not what they call them around here."
"Just don't ask me to put on an apron or cook for you." She put the bucket down. She was wearing a lavender robe that glowed in the low light from the porthole. I then handed her the bouquet of generic flowers in my hand.
"You haven't asked about these yet."
"Why would I want those?" she said, not giving them a second glance.
"Because they actually look nice, unlike that weed over there," I said pointing towards the disheveled plant.
"I like the weed. It has character." She pulled back and stood by the bed, her body silhouetted in the dying light.
"You're already too much character for this closet we live in," I smirked. She opened her mouth and faked a laugh. I looked at her robe again as it mingled with her blonde hair. This woman loves purple. "You changing?"
"You're the one who said we'd be celebrating tonight. Go out someplace way too expensive."
"Change of plans," I whispered as my hand started to undo her roping. "I know the best place in town to eat at." I pushed her back onto the bed. "And it doesn't even have a dress code." I leaned over her to steal a kiss, but pulled back at the last second before she could have it. I lowered myself to my knees and situated my head between her legs. She began to breathe heavily as my hand reached up to grab her breasts.
"Oh…I should have known, you pervy little bastard." Pervy? I had to raise my head to that one.
"Say what?"
"Don't play innocent. You met me when I was eleven." She flashed her wicked smile down at me.
"And now you're twenty-five."
"Twenty-four, stalker." She was giggling.
"We didn't do anything until you were twenty!"
"Nineteen."
"And you seduced me!"
"Did I?" she shrugged with faux-innocence. The robe fell off her shoulders and she leaned forward. In the last of the daylight, she looked like a nude sculpture.
"In some courtrooms, it'd be called rape," I insisted.
"Oh, I guess I did," she said with the wickedness turning to triumph. "I must have 'raped' you three times that very night." I grinned at my tormentor. My "wife." My partner. Mother of my unborn child.
"As long as you admit it," I finally whispered.
"And I plan to 'rape' you twice as much tonight," she said as she grabbed my hair. With freakish super-strength for her petite size, she pushed my head back down.
"But first you have a job to fini—" she trailed off with a soft moan.